


Glimpses of the Waste

by Dragonie



Series: Rain in the Desert [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: (not by main characters), (super spicy and shocking), Angst, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Microfic, Post-Game(s), Prompt Fic, Some Makeouts, Touch-Starved, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-12-07 05:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11617314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonie/pseuds/Dragonie
Summary: A collection of fills from Tumblr microfic prompts.Warnings in each chapter's introduction as required.





	1. "silent fury" - Courier Jane, Vulpes Inculta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains implied/referenced rape, descriptions of violence (it's set in Nipton, if that gives you any indication), and character death.

_“silent fury”_

                She wants to yell. To shout, scream, cry, _anything_ , to make _any_ kind of protest, but nothing comes out.

                Doghead keeps talking, but she can barely hear him past the pounding in her ears, and she thinks he's saying something about Nipton deserving it's fate, but she's not _in_ Nipton right now; she's somewhere distant and long ago and watching the smoke rising up from her village, her temple throbbing where the bullets went in, and it's all the _same_ ; the greasy black smoke stinking of burning flesh crawling into her nostrils, the moans of the men on crosses near-dead from the ropes and the sun, the brown bloodstains splashed everywhere, once crimson to match those filthy banners they put up everywhere because they're _proud_ of this, they're _proud_ of it, and she can't tell whether the man on that cross is a Powder Ganger or her father, and she thinks she hears in the crackling fire the screams of her mother and sisters as they- As they-

                Her pulse is a goddamn war band in her ears as Doghead drones on and on, her teeth grinding as if she could tear out his throat from this distance; god, she would do it, too. Her rifle's a dead weight in her hands, fingers clenched tight around it; one shot, she thinks, one shot and she could get Doghead from here, cut him right off in the middle of his arrogant fucking monologue. Might not have time to get off a second before the others jumped her, but god, it'd be worth it-

                _No,_ cuts in some more rational part of her mind, from a long way away, over the dunes, it feels like. _Fight_ smart _, Janey._ Survive _. Survive, an' see 'em dead._

                Doghead stops, looks at her expectantly, waiting for some kind of response, but she just stares at him mutely, stares into those cold fucking eyes. He takes in the look on her face, the raw, naked _hatred_ there, and his mouth twists into a sneer.

                "Lost for words?" The fucker sounds _amused_. "If you feel strongly about it, attack us, and soon you won't feel a thing." He doesn't even spare her another glance, just gestures to his men, and the troop heads out, leaving her standing there, stunned, staring at nothing.

                She finds life returning to her limps, feels the weight of the rifle in her hands. She turns around, and they're leaving Nipton, backs turned to her, writing her off as no danger to them. She takes a deep breath, steadies the stock against her shoulder, and stares down the sight.

                Ain't honourable to kill a man with his back turned, perhaps, but it's no more than they deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First prompt from a lovely anon!


	2. "saccharine" - Sole Survivor Mari/Preston

  1. _“saccharine”_



 

                "Is _that_ what kids liked back then?"

                Preston was staring up at the archway with a look on his face somewhere between confusion and disgust. Cappy and Bottle gazed back down with wide, lifeless eyes, paint peeling off their frozen grins. Mari wandered over beside him, folded her arms as she looked up at the crumbling faces.

                "Honestly? I've got _no_ clue. Always thought they were kinda creepy, to be honest. Time has not done them any favours on that front."

                "I don't get it. Are they supposed to be cute?" He cocked his head this way and that, as if trying to find something lovable in the figures and failing miserably. "I'd rather hug a radroach."

                She shrugged a shoulder.

                "You think this is bad, you should've seen it back when there were people. They had guys wandering around wearing costumes of these things."

                Preston shuddered and tore his eyes away from the grim visages.

                "Well, _that’s_ gonna keep me awake all night."

                "I thought that was my job," purred Mari.

                It was several minutes before Preston felt his cheeks stop burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second prompt from ringadingding, one of the most talented writers I know!


	3. "trembling hands" - Veronica/Christine

  1. _“trembling hands”_



 

                Christine patrols the empty streets of the Madre, the Cloud roiling above and around her as she pokes about in forgotten corners for more of Sinclair's technology. When she reaches the hospital, looks at the stairs going down into the basement, her hands begin to shake, the tremors almost imperceptible behind her Brotherhood training. She remembers what is down there.      

                Beside her, Veronica grabs her hand, squeezes it. Christine may be good at hiding it, but her girlfriend knows her far too well to be fooled. Veronica shoots Christine an encouraging smile, and for a moment, it is as if the sun has finally dawned in the Madre.

                "You didn't have to follow me here," says Christine, in an unfamiliar voice.

                Veronica squeezes her hand tighter.

                "What, and leave you all alone in this creepy place? Nuh-uh. I'm staying right here until you wise up and get your butt out."

                They always were both too stubborn for their own good, Christine thinks fondly, but today, that's not such a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third prompt from the lovely shimmertrap, one of the best artists in the fandom!


	4. "This was a mistake." - Courier Jane, Arcade Gannon

  1. _“This was a mistake.”_



                "Wait. Okay. Let me get this straight," Arcade held up a hand. "You want to _what_?"

                "Storm the Fort, 'course." Jane looked at him like this was a ridiculous question. Beside her, Boone nodded his assent. He looked about as eager as Arcade ever saw him. That is to say, still stony-faced, but actively engaged in the conversation.

                Arcade took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose.

                "Okay. So. You two-"

                ED-E beeped indignantly.

                "Three," supplied Jane.

                "You _three_ , two people and one eyebot, want to storm the headquarters of Arizona's most notorious warlord, fight your way through innumerable guards, and attempt to assassinate him in the very centre of his lair?"

                Jane nodded.

                "That's about the size of it, yeah."

                "That... is just about the most insane plan I have ever heard in my life."

                Jane shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by this constructive criticism.

                "Said the same thing about going there to scope it out in the first place, and we got outta that all right."

                She was a friend, and they were doing good. Arcade tried to hold on to that, because, not for the first time, he was regretting agreeing to play field medic to a courier with the approximate self-preservation instinct of a charging Bighorner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth prompt from the amazing turianosauruswrex, co-author of one of the most impressive fics I've seen come out of this fandom!


	5. "tender" - Courier Jane/Ulysses

  1. _“tender”_



                Jane sat cross-legged on the dirt in front of the open door and watched the cornstalks sway in the breeze. The night wind kicked up a chill along with the dust, and she drew her coat tighter around her. The stars were brilliant out here at Wolfhorn Ranch, dimming at the northern horizon where the lights of Vegas shone, as if they shied away from the competition. This far away, and still she could almost here the music, the laughter, the rattle of the roulette wheel from that gaudy, glittering jewel.

                Behind her, Ulysses reclined on the threadbare old mattress, the dust brushed carelessly off, reading a book by the warm, dim glow of an oil-lamp. Her rifle and Old Glory both were propped up against the wall of the farmhouse, unneeded in this precious moment of peace. The ancient boards creaked in the wind, but they'd weathered far greater storms than this, Ulysses said. Every so often, her ears picked up the distant bleats of a Bighorner herd, perhaps the same one that Ulysses had set free when he left this place years ago.

                "Pretty good set-up you had here," she looked over her shoulder. "Wind ain't tryin' to tear your skin off, for one thing."

                Ulysses gave her a flat look, set the book at the head of the bed. This far from the Divide, he'd stopped wearing that mask, as long as the air was clear. That was good; she liked to see his face. Made it a damn sight easier to kiss him, too.

                "Better to come inside, Gentle Rain," he said, ignoring the remark. Jesus, but it still felt good to hear him call her by her real name. "Night has a chill to it."

                Jane grinned, got to her feet, closed the squeaky old door. She hung her hat on the corner of the lockers, shrugged her duster off and chucked it over the back of the chair, came to sit on the bed beside her lover.

                "Ah, too late! I'm chilled down to th' bone!" she sighed dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead like she seen some damsel do in an old movie a man up in Redding was peddling, badly suppressing a snicker. Corner of Ulysses' mouth quirked up, and he pulled himself upright.

                "Asking for me to warm you up?" There was warmth enough in his voice to do the job on its own, if she were honest. His arm snaked around her body, pulled her to him.

                "If y' would be so kind." She didn't bother to suppress the laugh now, let it come. She reached out a hand to stroke his cheek tenderly, feel the rasp of stubble against her fingers, as his mouth bore down on hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifth and last prompt (at least for now) from the up-and-coming author RedEastMovement!


	6. "staring at the other's lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in" - Courier Ezra/Ulysses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt comes from a lovely anon on Tumblr, who requested Ulysses/M!Courier! Unfortunately, I have no M!Courier of my own, so my dear friend DJFero graciously let me borrow his boy Ezra for the fill. Thank you! <3

                _“staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in”_

 

                Hears Walker before he sees him, like always; jangle of spurs the man insists on wearing. Not afraid to announce his presence, even in a place like this, where the are few enough who’d hear and wouldn’t mean harm. Hard to know whether or admire his bravery or scorn his foolhardiness or both at once. Another mark on the long list of things Walker does that he doesn’t know how to react to, he supposes.

                Courier gives a whistle, high and clear, echoing off the canyon walls. Ulysses turns his head, sees the man, all garish clothes and familiar gap-toothed grin, gives him a nod. Ezra needs no more encouragement. Comes to sit by Ulysses on the cliffs, long legs folding up with surprising speed; lays his rifle down. Seen him move down on the Road, all tense and wired like some predatory beast ready to spring, but there’s nothing of that in his posture now. Casual, shoulders relaxed, sign of the trust that the man affords him; lying, if Ulysses said he felt no gratitude for it.

                Walker takes his hat off, combs his fingers through wavy blond hair, wipes the sweat of the trail from his brow. Another mark of trust, Ulysses notes; lets the scars show around him, the ones he hides from most, hole in his head like a bomb crater where the bullet went in. Brothers in the Legion would have bragged about a scar like that, proof of their strength in what had failed to kill him, but Courier’s a very different man. Gets the sense that he’s not fond of what he’s become, since being marked.

                “So, there I was up in Redding,” he begins. Never bothers with the greetings or small-talk, might be away for weeks on end but always comes back as if he were just gone a minute. “An’ some drunk feller in the Malamute’s tryna tell me they got some kinda exterterrestials out in the mines.”

                “Hn. Believed him?”

                “Nah,” Walker lowers his sunglasses with a smirk. Keeps Ulysses on the side of his good eye, warm and brown. Glasses are more to hide the bad one than keep out the glare, Ulysses suspects; supposes that’s what counts for armour, with him. “Reckoned it were a load o’ Brahminshit. But he swore up an’ down they was there, so it got me curious.”

                Courier digs through his pack, pulls out two bottles of sarsaparilla, levers the caps open with a spur. He proffers one to Ulysses, who takes it, tugging down the breathing mask. Strange expression passes over Walker’s face, and he turns away, stares at Hopeville fires below.

                “Had to see for yourself?” Ulysses prompts him.

                “Wha–? Oh, yeah. So, dead of night, I head down to the mines wi’ a gun an’ a flashlight.” He holds up a finger to pause the story, takes a swig of sarsaparilla. Dips the bottle too early, and a couple of drops fall onto his lips, stay there glistening until he wipes them away with the back of his hand. Ulysses can’t help but stare.

                Still remembers the taste of those lips, from last time they parted; thought of little else in the week he’s been gone. Said goodbye like a lover; never explained his feelings, didn’t have to. What’s between them was nebulous, but it was definitely _there_ … at least, he thought it was, but Walker hasn’t brought it up yet, and Ulysses hesitates to. Uncomfortable twisting in his gut, a thought gnawing at his brain saying the man’s come to his senses, thought better of it, decided he’s gotten too close…

                “So,” Walker continues, heedless. “Feller done tol’ me that they’d been hearin’ strange noises from the mines, cries what came from no critter as they knew of, an’ seein’ strange lights in the night besides. So I head on down to the mineshaft, and sure enough, I hears this awful wailin’ echoin’ through the caves.”

                “Know of no beast that wails,” Ulysses frowns, takes a sip of his own drink. Lukewarm, but a relief anyway, with his throat as dry as the dust storms above. He wets parched lips.

                “An’ so…” Strange look is back on Walker’s face, his story stuttering as he loses focus. Ulysses’ brow furrows, puzzled. “Mean to say, that’s what got ‘em puzzled, too.” He rallies himself well, but his eyes keep flicking back to Ulysses’ face, never stay long away. Knows Walker would tell him if there were something strange about his appearance, can’t think what has the man so off-stride.

                He takes another drink of soda, tries to chase the nagging thoughts away; but he can’t help glancing back at Ezra. Sees the man still watching him, sees him bite his lip, teeth digging into soft flesh ( _very_ soft; surprised him with that, how comforting they felt against his mouth). Ulysses swallows hard, takes all of his fortitude not to choke on his drink. Can’t tear his eyes from Ezra’s mouth; must be staring like a teenager with his first love, he scolds himself. Should be more composed than this, not losing his thoughts in lust over a man who doesn’t even seem to notice–

                “Aw, hell,” Ezra lays his glasses aside, combs through his hair with a sheepish look. “Reckon we’re both too old fer this. D’you wanna make out, or–?”

                Ulysses doesn’t wait to hear the other options. Hands are tangling through Ezra’s hair in an instant, calloused palm against his cheek, mouth on his, hot and hungry. It’s an ungainly start to the kiss, teeth clashing together, but neither man seems to mind much. Ezra’s mouth tastes of sarsaparilla; he opens his jaw slightly, and Ulysses takes the opportunity to slide his tongue in, seeking more, _craving_ it. Hungry for this, all week; his dreams tormented by visions of a tenderness he thought long lost to him.

                Ezra chuckles into Ulysses’ mouth and shifts his weight, leaning into the kiss, one hand resting tentatively on Ulysses’ hip, the other cupping his cheek, urging his mouth wider open with an insistent thumb. He uses his height to his advantage to take the lead, forehead brushing against Ulysses’, nose rubbing against nose, as he explores the man’s mouth, strokes tongue with tongue, sucks on Ulysses’ bottom lip every time he pulls back. Ulysses makes a low growl in the back of his throat, one arm around Ezra’s back, pulling him close, fingers of the other twined in his hair, pulling his head closer, trying to feel more, _deeper_ …

                Both are slightly breathless when they finally, reluctantly, pull apart. Ezra’s cheeks are flushed pink as a sunset as he shoots Ulysses a grin.

                “Reckon you missed me, eh?”

                Ulysses snorts, but a corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile.

                “Not wrong there.”

                “Heh. Missed you to, ya big ol’ sap.”

                Ezra grins like a sunrise, wraps both arms around Ulysses’ neck, and goes back to kissing him.


	7. speaking normally, then after the kiss their voice is hoarse - Courier Jane/Ulysses

  1. _“speaking normally, then after the kiss their voice is hoarse”_



                “It ain’t about the tech,” Courier turns a prickly pear fruit in her hands as if appraising it, takes a large bite. “Or beefin’ up the NCR, or anything. But Christine and Ronnie are proof enough that _some_ good folks do come outta the Brotherhood. Weren’t about to wipe ‘em all out just ‘cause Moore don’t feel like negotiatin’.”

                Her head’s a warm weight on Ulysses’ shoulder, her fingers locked lazily with his. Seems to take the touch for natural, but he’s intensely aware of every point of contact between them, everywhere her body meets his. Not used to this; instincts demand his full attention to her nearness, too long since any came close, without harm on their minds. Still has trouble translating her touch into safety, but it’s the closest to it he knows.

                She leans back against him as she chews, makes of him a place to rest her head. Her braid drapes down his chest, falls onto his thigh. A calloused thumb idly strokes the flesh of his hand, traces over bone and sinew.

                “Said before, Brotherhood walks a dead road,” Ulysses rejoinders. “Old World sickness, clinging to technology, expecting machines to save them. Claim to learn from the mistakes of the past, keep repeating them. No future in it.”

                Courier spits out seeds into the dust and shrugs. He feels the muscles of her back shift with the movement. She’s deceptively lanky, but there’s a lean energy there; seen her move fast enough to surprise even him. Moves quiet like a hunter, taut muscle and calculating patience, can spring into fight or flight in an instant, yet it’s by his side that she curls up to sleep.

               “Thought you reckoned Bear’s doomed, too.” Doesn’t need to look down at her face; can hear the grin in her voice. Smile comes easy to her, in spite of everything; bitten by a Tunneler on a supply run, once, laughed and joked through the wincing as he cleaned and bandaged the wound. “Woulda thought they’d be a match made in heaven, far as you’re concerned.”

                “Hn. Both tread blindly in the footsteps of the Old World, alike in that. Copy every misstep, walk in circles… road ended in fire, last time around, might do the same again. Still… Brotherhood has conviction, what I’ve seen; believes in its own dead ends. Bear might’ve, once, but too grasping now; stands for nothing but greed, rotten with it. Turn on each other, in time.”

                “So, in other words…” Courier frowns thoughtfully. Doesn’t bother arguing the Bear’s virtue; more likely that she’s tired of the debate than that he’s convinced her. “Brotherhood’ll stick to its ideals, and NCR’ll do what benefits ‘em. So to get a lastin’ peace between the two, they gotta find some common goal, somethin’ the NCR wants as much as the Brotherhood believes in.” She nestles in closer to him, squeezes his hand tight. “Some kinda information exchange, maybe; Brotherhood trades some of the more harmless tech they’ve salvaged for a look-see into Vault City research, or the like. Don’t s’pose you got any ideas, there?”

                “Won’t last,” Ulysses warns, with a shake of his head. “Bear will never be satisfied with only what Brotherhood chooses to give; demand more eventually.”

                Courier sighs, glances up at him.

                “Y’know, sometimes I hate it when you got a point.” She takes another bite of cactus fruit, staring out at the Divide as she chews. “Maybe I need to come back every so often, kick their asses back into cooperation. Reckon that’d help?”

                He snorts. Knows she’s joking, but the idea’s not so ridiculous as she maybe thinks. Courier births nations, leaves others broken in her wake; wonders if the Bear rests uneasy, sometimes, for fear of her fury changing courses, being directed at them.

                “Against you, Courier, would have them swearing blood-oaths at each other, fear any less.”

                She laughs, the sound warm like rocks in the sun.

                “Always know just how to butter up a girl, Ulysses.”

                He watches her, watches the way her eyes crinkle at the corners as she grins, the way she arches back into him, stretches contentedly, locks her fingers tight with his.

                He’s taken aback when she brings their joined hands to her lips, presses a row of kisses along his knuckles. He can feel her smile against the back of his hand, her breath graze his skin. Fond of this; gentle, easy touches, slipping comfortably into the role of a lover. Thought of her as many things, before the Temple. Saw her as the woman who birthed a nation, pumping breath into its lungs with every step. Saw her as the woman who destroyed that nation, death following her like a shadow, a mother slitting her own child’s throat. Saw her as a careless force of nature, bringing life or death upon all she visited, ignorant of the ruin left in her wake. Saw her, face to face in front of the giants, as clever and relentless, surprising him with her understanding and cornering him with his own words. Never thought of her in a way as _ordinary_ as this, a woman cozying up to her lover in the dying light, but he doesn’t find it a disappointment.

                Ulysses dips his head to hers, and kisses her. Tastes the juice on her lips, fresh and sweet. She responds eagerly, twisting her body to give him a better angle, one hand grabbing the front of his shirt, twisting into the tattered fabric, while the other remains tightly clasped with his. He cups her face and deepens the kiss, leans over her, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. She lets out a low sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, drags him in by the shirtfront as her tongue seeks entry into his mouth. He grants it without hesitation, lets himself bask in her hunger for him before pushing back, stroking her tongue with his, worrying her lips between his teeth. He’s breathing heavy, now, can feel her doing the same; wonders if she’d have him here, in the dust, let it mingle with their sweat and turn to mud. She draws back - and then suddenly twists her head, gives his nose a playful nip, bursts out laughing at his shocked expression. He snorts and draws her head, still chuckling, into his chest.

                “Wicked woman.” His voice is husky with desire, he knows, his nerves still aching for more of her touch.

                She laughs again, nuzzles her cheek against the worn fabric of his shirt.

                “Ah, you love it, man.” Her voice is hoarse as well, he notes with a hint of pride. Can make her feel it, too, even if she takes joy in the teasing. Pulls her in just that little bit closer; to hear his own pounding heart, perhaps, his ragged breathing, let her know what she does to him.

                She rests her head against him, contented smile on her face, and does her valiant best to continue their conversation, voice rough, as his fingers trace languid circles on the back of her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt comes from the lovely Cheloniidae, whose work is utterly fantastic and you should go read it right now!


	8. ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close - Courier Jane/Ulysses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains descriptions of gore and cannibalism (on the part of Marked Men). Hopefully it is not much more extreme than the game itself, but please take note.
> 
> This story isn’t really Rain in the Desert “canon”, since the kind of scene I came up with didn’t really fit anywhere in that timeline. Think of it as more like a minor AU.

  1. _ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close_



    Smoke crawls up the canyon walls, black and greasy. A troop of Marked Men sit around a fire, tatters of Legion red and NCR olive together in some ghastly parody of a peace treaty. They chew mutely on hunks of charred flesh; never seem to make a sound, not even to each other. She’s met _ferals_ chattier than this.

    Jane doesn’t need to ask what kind of meat they’re cooking. There’s a stench in the air she remembers all too well from Nipton, and before. The thick smell seems to pool in the back of her mouth, and she has to fight to keep from gagging.

    “Descended into savagery,” Ulysses’ low voice comes from behind her, close enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. “Devour their own, can find no other meat.” There’s disgust in his tone, _contempt_ , even; not just at their diets, she knows, but at their loss of self. Man’s hung on to the memory of the Twisted Hairs in the face of all that he’s endured; if anyone could claim flaying alive wouldn’t strip them of their history, she supposes, it would be him.

    He doesn’t take the chance to point out her own hand in their condition, an unexpected mercy from him.

    The Marked Men haven’t seen them, too absorbed in their grisly meal to notice any sign of their presence. Can’t let herself relax, though, not while they still draw breath. Back pressed up against the rock face, clutching her rifle with one finger hovering over the trigger, Jane surveys the campsite.

    “Five by the fire,” she whispers to Ulysses. He’s beside her in the secluded crevice, his own gun at the ready, and close, distractingly close in the tight quarters. “See mostly small arms and melee, think one’s got a minigun. Another standin’ lookout on the fallen building to the north, facin’ out. Some kinda rifle, not big enough for snipin’. Can’t get a clear view of the east; could be more that way.”

    He nods back, expression unreadable beneath the mask. His eyes flick towards the fire, and the rising smoke. He’s near enough she can practically hear him breathe; some treacherous part of her thinks it wouldn’t be so bad if they just bedded down here for the night, waited for the Marked Men to move on in the morning. Sleep huddled up close against the rock, probably the closest she’d ever get to holding him like she wants.

    Jane scowls, cursing herself for letting foolish daydreams get into her head _now_ , when she needs all of her wits about her, for _his_ sake as well as hers.

    “Take out the minigunner,” Ulysses says to her. “Sentry next, then secure the east, got more range on you.” He gestures to her weapon. “Cover my approach, let me get close to the others.”

    “Hang on,” she hisses, alarmed. “You ain’t plannin’ on _chargin_ ’ ‘em, are you?”

    He looks her in the eye, says nothing, and moves past her. Tries to, anyway, but she grabs him by the duster and _yanks_ him back. Probably wouldn’t have worked, strength for strength, but he’s caught off-guard by it, staggers back awkwardly. He shoots her an indignant look.

    “You got some kinda deathwish, man?” She keeps her voice as low as she can, but there’s a tinge of panic in it. Hates this part of him; his complete disregard for his own safety. _He_ might not care whether he lives or dies, but _she_ does, goddamnit. Hasn’t told him that, yet, doesn’t quite know the words for it… No, that’s a lie, she does, but she’s afraid of what speaking them will do to their relationship, which feels a delicate enough thing as it is: a friendship, if he would even call it that (she does), which by all rights probably shouldn’t even exist, considering their history. Complicated enough already, without declaring her feelings for a man who is probably the last person on earth who could return them.

    She takes a deep breath, wills her nerves to calm. Her hand is still clutching his jacket, she notices; she releases it tentatively. He stays where he is, still watching her.

    “We hold position, take ‘em out from here,” she argues. “Rock wall’s good cover; lookout and any hanging round the east’ll have to move position to get at us, buy us some time. Duck out from the rocks, fire in short bursts, duck back. Get the minigunner with the first shot, if I can.” She jerks her head in the direction of the main troop and gives Ulysses a scathing look. “No need to go takin’ unnecessary risks when we got a good defensible location right here. Is goin’ straight for the charge some kinda Legion pissin’ contest thing?”

    He frowns at her; at least, she _thinks_ he does, his brows knitting.

    “Be a drawn-out battle,” he cautions. “No telling how many others stalk the canyons, might bring more to us, lengthen the fight. Better to bring them down quickly. No need to _worry_ about me, Courier.”

    “Figure _someone’s_ gotta.” Jane chews her lip, tries to keep her voice low despite her growing frustration. Wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument, or some variation thereof; probably wouldn’t be the last. Too much to hope, that she could give him something to live for, but she’d settle at least for a shred of self-preservation, not being prepared to throw his life away at the drop of a hat.

    She meets his eyes, summoning up every ounce of Brahmin-headed stubbornness within her. He holds her gaze; she expects to see annoyance there, at her meddling, but is met instead with that same curious, _studying_ expression he’s been wearing a lot, lately. A silence stretches out between them, broken only by the howling of stormwinds above, a sickening crack as a Marked Man snaps through bone to get to the marrow within.

    Finally, Ulysses gives her a short, curt nod and turns his eyes towards the smoke, gesturing for her to take the first shot.

 

* * *

 

    Jane holds her shirt over her nose as she approaches the fire, part of what she assumes to be a torso still charring on a makeshift spit. She nudges the corpse of a former Legionary with the toe of her boot, checks to make sure he’s not breathing, wincing a little at the sight of worn leather prodding into exposed muscle and tendon.

    Ulysses stalks the battleground, casting a wary eye on the ruins around them. The troop, it seems, was alone, the reinforcements he feared did not come, but the man never relaxes, might not even be _capable_ of it. She can see the tension in his shoulders as he scans the horizon for enemies, gun still in hand, ready to be attacked any moment. Even when they’re back on the cliffs above Hopeville, higher up than the Marked Men or the Tunnelers ever roam, he’s alert; hell, the man manages to seem on-guard when he sleeps. Walls are always up, with him, even (especially?) around her.

    She gives the dead scout’s pockets a quick once-over for ammunition, comes up empty. Glances at the sky to see the red glare of the sun behind the dust clouds, hanging low over the western lip of the canyon.

    “Best get goin’,” she straightens up. “If we want to make shelter ‘fore nightfall.”

    Ulysses nods, turns toward the road ahead. He waits just long enough for her to catch up, she notes; a new courtesy from him, a sign that some kind of familiarity is growing between them, despite it all. She can’t help a little smile at that, even though she knows damn well it’s foolish to get her hopes up, with him.

    He’s silent on the journey, as they pass under leaning hulks of shattered buildings, clamber over piles of rock and rubble, make byways through fragments of ancient rooms, but she doesn’t mind. Shared plenty of silences with him before; if not exactly _companionable_ , then at least not _awkward_. Spent too much time alone on the road (and more, travelling with Boone) to need a constant stream of chatter to keep her comfortable; just knowing he’s there is comfort enough.

    They reach one of his old campsites just as the light starts to fade. It’s a claustrophobic little thing, an upended old hotel room in the belly of a fallen building. A battered old armoire partially blocks the lopsided door, making the entrance quite a squeeze but also keeping it sheltered from the hungry eyes of the Divide’s inhabitants. A single bedroll lies on the ground, a crumpled rucksack beside it.

    Ulysses rifles through the pack, pulling out a bottle of cloudy, unhealthy-looking water. He yanks his mask down to take a measured sip, always careful in his use of resources. Jane sweeps her hat off, nervously smoothing down her hair, not sure where to place herself in the cramped quarters. Argued through this in her head before, wanting to be close to him but not wanting to impose herself. He glances at her, pursing his lips.

    “Something troubling you, Courier?” he asks.

    _Shit._ Her mind whirrs trying to think of a convincing bluff or half-truth, because the _actual_ truth is unlikely to go down very well. (She can picture it now: _“Hey, I know I accidentally destroyed everything you ever loved, an’ all, but how d’ya feel about kissin’ me a little?”_ ) She settles on another issue lurking at the back of her mind, something that's not _exactly_ a lie.

    “Gettin’ worried about you, man.” She holds his gaze, tosses her hat down by the rucksack. “Too damn quick to put yourself in harm’s way. Ain't the first time I had to pull you back from chargin’ off into some dangerous situation.”

    He gives her a flat look. It’s a familiar argument, in variation; usually her entreaties for him to get some goddamn self-preservation instinct in him come in the form of suggestions that he leave the Divide, rather than challenges to his battle tactics.

    “Can take care of myself, Courier.” He sets the water bottle down beside the bedroll. “Don’t need you to mother me.”

    “‘Mother you?’” Jane arches an eyebrow, irritated. “Didn’t realise it was such a _burden_ on you, me carin’ about your wellbein’.”

    He frowns.

    “Not what I—”

    But she’s on a roll, now, pent-up frustration pouring out like the Hoover Dam bursting.

    “Wouldja prefer it if I went around sayin’, ‘ _Oh Ulysses, by all means, go an’ get yourself killed, I don’t give a shit at all_ ’?” The last part is in mocking falsetto.

    “Trying to say—”

    “Come off it, man, is it such a goddamn crime to _care_ about you?”

    His brow furrows, the corners of his mouth deepening into a frown.

    “‘Care about me?’ Don’t need to _care_ about me, Courier. Saving me won’t save the Divide; won’t ease the burden of what happened here.”

    “It ain’t about that, and you _know_ it.”

    “No. Have the right of it.” He shakes his head. His tone is naked scepticism. He’s stubborn, too set on this explanation to see anything else; it’s the fucking Road all over again. “Won’t find absolution in me, Courier… Find better targets for your _pity_ elsewhere.”

    She wants to scream. He doesn’t get it; he’s too wrapped up in his fucking _symbols_ to recognise simple human emotion when he’s staring it in the face. Has to be some way to make him understand that it’s not about that, not about the Divide or the bombs or grand metaphorical gestures, just about her and him and her own stupid feelings…

    He’s within arm’s reach, she notices, the space too small to be otherwise. An idea comes to her, some way she can make him see, make him _understand_. If words won’t work, then actions will have to do.

    She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss.

    It’s a messy mashing of lips, no art to it; his eyes widen in shock, and she can hear his sharp intake of breath. The sound shocks her back into sensibility, and she immediately regrets her hasty actions. He’s been more than tolerant of her, she thinks, as she feels the tide of contrition and self-disgust wash over her mind; has every reason to hate her, even if he’s been turned away from his murderous intentions, for her unwitting hand in the destruction of his home, wouldn’t be unexpected if he never wanted to see her again. Yet he never complains about her presence, even as she turns up uninvited, again and again; listens to her when she talks, bares her heart to him; even keeps her company on these forays through the ruins. She _knows_ it’s too much to expect, that he might feel the same, _knows_ that she should be grateful that there’s peace between them at all… But no, she had to get _greedy_ , and kept pushing at him, and now she’s gone and fucked everything up… She draws her head back, stammering out apologies, letting the fabric of his shirt fall from her fingers, unwilling to meet his eyes. She expects him to push her away, in anger and disgust; leave, perhaps, or demand that she do so. If she’s very, _very_ lucky, he might try and pretend that never happened, and let her stay, although the silence will be awkward, fresh walls built up, a gulf wide as the Divide opened up between them.

    What she _doesn’t_ expect is for him to grab the back of her head and respond fiercely, stubble scratching at her face as he kisses her back. He’s insistent; not _rough_ , as one might expect from an ex-Legionary, but determined nevertheless. She’s shocked, at first, standing stock-still, but soon she’s reciprocating, fingers tangling into his locks as she seeks his lips hungrily; wants this too much to question it, just yet.

    Suddenly he stops, pushes her away by the shoulders.

    “Wh—” Jane’s face twists in confusion.

    “Won’t end well,” he says. His tone would sound flat to any who didn’t know him well, but she’s spent enough time listening to him to pick up a subtle, sorrowful note in his voice. “Be a mistake; know as well as I my road ends here.”

    She gives him a long, hard look, a confusing mess of emotions streaming through her mind: there’s shock at the sudden turnaround, frustration at his continued insistence that his fate is to die here, joy that he kissed her back. She wants to tell him that it doesn’t _matter_ , she already makes the trek up to the Divide to see him, won’t be hurt any less by the thought of him dying if he’s not her lover, tell him that whatever he means to do here, he doesn’t have to face it alone; she also wants to argue, yell at him to get his ass out of this irradiated canyon and stop being so resigned to death. So she does the only thing she can think to do, in the moment.

    She kisses him again.

    He’s eager, when her lips meet his, despite his earlier misgivings; she feels him rest a hand on her back, pulling her gently in, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat. She wraps her arms around him in turn, beneath the duster, feels the warmth of his body through the threadbare shirt. His mouth his hot on hers; the hand on her back slides up her neck, making her shiver as his other arm snakes around her waist, urges her flush against him. Jane pulls back only to nuzzle along his jawline, feel him shudder against her.

    “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, man,” she murmurs into his ear, her voice husky as she holds him close. “Stay here, if you want me to, ‘til you get it into that stubborn head of yours to leave already.”

    He’s silent for a moment; she can feel his chest move, his breathing rough to match her own. Her heart pounds and not just from the excitement. It all depends on his next words.

    “…Stay,” Ulysses says slowly, quietly, and she lets out a breath of sheer relief as his mouth finds hers once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt comes from my dear friend DJFero, whose M!Courier/Ulysses fics are works of fucking masterpiece and you should go read right now!


	9. "holding hands" - Courier Jane/Ulysses

  1. _holding hands_



Sky burned in the Divide, every day since the earth split and the fury of the Old World poured through the cracks, left the land scarred and blistered. Dawn and dusk set alight the dust-choked sky, sun glowering red like Legion banners.

_ They say red skies at night means clear mornin’s ahead _ , Courier had said with a bitter smile. Both knew the joke for what it was. No clear skies in the Divide, not anymore.

Had been, once, when he first followed another Courier’s trail through the canyons. Too clear, some would say; sun beating down on your back, burning flesh, drops of sweat falling from your brow and drying before they hit the earth. But Ulysses had walked the Mojave, the Sonoran, the Painted Desert, on Caesar’s orders and before; no stranger to the heat and sand. It was an honest kind of hardship, he thought, the kind that took strength of will, perseverance, to overcome, not Vulpes’ lies or Bear’s pretensions. Had to respect those who would choose to live out here.

None left now, though. Courier’s delivery killed the Divide more completely than Bull could ever do, brought it to heel more thoroughly than Bear could ever dream. Old World knew how to bring death, give them that; two hundred years in its grave and still its weapons scorched the earth. Fitting, at least, that the proud people who lived here had been allowed to die clean, spared the fate of the Marked Men. Allowed to die remembering who they were.

Now, only two Couriers left to remember the Divide as it once was, as anything other than another wasteland.

“Somethin’ wrong, man?” Courier’s voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. Spent years here with no voice to hear but his own; still wasn’t used to the interruptions. Be lying if he said it was unwelcome, though. His mind had been down this road too many times already. “You seem… pensive. Even more’n usual, I mean.”

Didn’t have to turn to look at her; could already picture her frown, the knit, her cocked head, seen it enough times. Still couldn’t see the why of it. Unexpected enough, that she would keep coming back here; had no reason to show  _ concern _ for him.

Paused for a minute, weighed up how much he was willing to let her pry him open.

“Remembering,” he said, finally. “What this place used to be.”

Silence hung heavy between them. Maybe she took it for condemnation; would’ve been, not too long ago. Something had changed, since then. Might’ve been the her speech at the Temple, might’ve been something she said since. That fire looked to have burned down, either way.

_ Know what it means to lose a home, _ she’d said.  _ Like you, and not like you, in all the ways that matter… _

Felt a touch on his hand, warm and feather-light. Jerked away on instinct. Turned to see the Courier looking surprised, hands up, palms-front in a gesture of appeasement.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Shoulda asked, first.”

He stared at her hands - long, bony fingers, marked with line and callous. She was trying to… hold his hand?  _ Comfort  _ him?

Courier had a knack for doing the last thing he expected of her, seemed like; at the Temple, and here.

Held her gaze for a moment, searching for some deceit, some angle. Couldn’t find any; didn’t expect to, by now, knew her well enough. Honest, in her way, not like the Bear she served. Not like Vulpes and his promises. Straightforwardness about her, one he could respect.

He thought, wheels grinding in his mind, and laid his hand back down, slow and deliberate, never breaking his gaze. She looked down at it, eyebrows raised; gave him a nod - of apology? Gratitude? - and a quirk of the mouth, not a smile, not yet.

Laid her hand on his, same slowness, fingers just curled around his. Felt… strange; good, but strange, as if he’d forgotten how it should feel. Perhaps he had; couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him just to comfort. Would’ve taken it for shameful pity, perhaps, years ago; brothers would have mocked him as a child, if they saw. Let her thread her fingers through his anyway. No one left to see here now, and if the gesture brought her some satisfaction, he could abide it.

Sun smouldered low on the horizon; felt the wind stir his braids, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling whenever her hand shifted, her fingers brushed against his. She sat beside him in silence, palm warm against his skin, and together they watched the light sink into the west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it has been forever! working on some prompts i got 3 million years ago right before Big Writer's Block ghrughfjgfhf this one came from an anonymous source whomst i love


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